


Fenders Secret Santa

by Akaiba



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Five Times They Didn't and One Time They Did, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaiba/pseuds/Akaiba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very Fenders merry christmas to drbubblegum ! I hope this is a fun little read for you, I reined in all my angst in the hopes that this would be a nice gift and not a gut punch of angst. XD I combined a bunch of your ideas because I couldn’t help myself, hope that’s okay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fenders Secret Santa

**Author's Note:**

> Five times Fenris and Anders didn’t kiss and cuddle, and the one time they did.

1.

The first time they huddled under a blanket together it was without a doubt one of the worst experiences for both of them and all retellings after the fact devolve into arguments of who was the more hard done by for having to suffer through the situation.

Fenris is from Tevinter, a fact no one is unaware of when having spent five minutes near him, and as such he is well suited to hot, dry climates. Other forms of weather, while not alien to him, are received less than welcomely. In short; he responds to rain about as well as a cat to a bath. It might be amusing if Anders weren’t pressed tight against him, getting stabbed by the elf’s unreasonably sharp and pointy armour with each shiver that either of them make. 

The blanket is not waterproof and if either of them even attempt to get room they expose themselves from the shelter of the pitiful outcropping and soak it. 

So; tight cramped space, rain, prickly elf, and one Templar silenced Anders who can’t stop running his mouth with each complaint every ten minutes or so. The Maker truly must have hated them both in equal measure to torment them so and were Fenris’ arm not clutching the blanket fiercely he would be using it to wield his sword. 

“Cease your wriggling, mage, or I will throw you out into the mud.” Fenris hissed, less threatening when his teeth are chattering.

Anders snorts as he shuffles closer, jostling Fenris and getting a spike in the shoulder for his efforts. “Right, and how else are you going to stay warm than by cuddling up to the wriggling mage?”

“I would rather freeze.”

“Bullshit. We’re practically cuddling.”

Fenris, for all his shivering, manages to pull of rigid disgust fairly well. “We are not cuddling.”

“Oh yes we are!” Anders’ smirk is snide and teasing, all the more delighted for the sore spot he has managed to find that lightens the fact that he is stuck under a blanket in the rain with an elf who hates him- all because Hawke thought they could beat the storm back to Kirkwall. He hopes Varric and Hawke are as miserable as they are, but no doubt their cuddling involves far more affectionate cuddling. “You fit just nicely against my arm, I bet I could tuck you under my arm and keep you nice and toasty, shall we try?” Anders does not even move to attempt it, words are one thing but action he knows will lose him limbs.

“I will remove your arm should you try it.” Fenris sneers.

Anders sighs. “Hawke owes me for this.” He mutters, only igniting Fenris all the more as he declares he could have left the mage to flounder when the storm hit but he had grabbed him to haul to shelter instead. Neither notice as the storm wanes, their arguing passing the time until Varric and Hawke find them- following their self-righteous tones to the sodden, huddled mass near by.

Varric passes Hawke three sovereigns that one of them didn’t manage to kill the other.

2.

The second time neither of them know of it until they wake. 

Anders had passed out. That in itself is nothing new, but when he wakes it is to warm skin under his hands, his cheek pillowed on a steady heartbeat and so unreasonably content he has half a mind to fall right back to sleep again. 

Except… he shouldn’t be sleeping next to another person. Hardly the first time in his life where he has woken in such circumstances but it has been some years now, enough to make his brow crease and wake a little more. 

Lyrium. 

Warm and humming, shushing Justice in his head and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end in the most delightfully tingly way. 

Fenris.

The elf lay on the bed, Anders collapsed sideways onto his chest where he’s half sat on the floor with the most awful crick in his back, Fenris neatly bandaged and Anders’ magic wearily worn down. Right, the High Dragon Hawke had dragged Aveline, Fenris and Isabela off to fight. Sure enough when he turns to look, Isabela is sleeping in another cot with her own fair share of injuries. 

The passing out, while not unusual but kind of embarrassing, is one thing he expects. The blanket tucked around him, and over Fenris, is not. 

It smells of Hawke. 

Anders flushes as he realises Hawke saw him swooned over Fenris and dreading next seeing him for all the teasing he is bound to get. With careful movements he extricates himself from Fenris so as not to wake the elf, standing with the blanket in his hands he fidgets a moment before placing it over Fenris. Better not to think on that, chalking it up to healing instincts and hobbling his way to his desk. There is time enough to write some more if he pushes himself, he thinks.

Fenris stirs on the bed, the blanket warm and very welcome in the open chill of the clinic, but he does not wake. His face turns into the blanket and he breathes deep; the blanket smells like Anders. Whatever misgivings he has about Anders’ person, his scent assures him of safety. He will not be harmed in the mage’s care and he knows that.

It changes nothing, Fenris tells himself when he wakes and kicks the blanket from his person with a disgusted sound. 

It changes everything, Fenris knows deep down.

A mage he can trust. What madness has he sunk to now?

3.

Anders is rocking himself slowly, arms tightly wrapped around his knees, when Fenris sits beside him. 

“Please, please, don’t mock me for this, not for this, Fenris.” Anders’ voice cracks on Fenris’ name, the elf looking down on the pitiful man he had always known was who Anders pretended not to be. Right? That was how Fenris thought of him, Anders thought. A wretched mage, so lost, so misguided, come to me, come to me, your taint cries out, itching in his skull why won’t it stop?! Justice boiled under his skin and all he could taste was the fade until Fenris’ hand closed around his wrist and it felt like breaking through water to gulp greedily at air.

“My lyrium pacifies your demon.” Fenris nods to himself, seemingly having answered his own curious hypothesis, before letting go of Anders wrist and shuffling a little closer. 

The itch creeps in when Fenris lets go of him and Anders immediately crowds into Fenris’ side, much to Fenris irritation. “I know; you hate me, you don’t want me near you. But please, just… this place it is… it is doing something to Justice. And me. I c-can’t…” Anders’ fingers wind into his hair, loose strands falling around his face as he tugs and Fenris shifts uncomfortably. 

“We will find our way out.” 

Anders’ breath shudders through his teeth. “Before or after you have to put me down?”

Fenris says nothing and Anders spits out a choked laugh that trails into a sob and Fenris shoots Hawke a wide-eyed, terrified look. If the mage starts crying Fenris may have to abandon any semblance of aid. Even if his lyrium helps keep the abomination sane he is definitely not looking to be a shoulder for the mage to cry on. 

Hawke gulps. “I’m going to scout ahead. You coming, Merrill?” If looks could kill, Hawke would be in grave danger. He isn’t entirely certain he isn’t still, what with the look Fenris is promising him with. He sets his pack down and tugs a blanket out, settling it around Fenris and Anders’ shoulders, dodging the swipe of claws Fenris makes as Anders curls into his side. “This was your idea, Fen.” Hawke reminds cheerfully.

Fenris does not appreciate that reminder. “And this entire, Maker-forsaken journey was yours!”

Hawke feigns offense. “Someone tried to kill me!”

“Everyone tries to kill you.” Fenris, Merrill and a shaky Anders point out in unison.

“Some friends you are.” Hawke sniffs, stalking off as Fenris glares at his back and does his best to accommodate the mage whimpering beside him. Darkspawn, the Calling, a cult, Hawke’s father the blood mage… this place was cursed. Fenris’ gaze flicks over to Anders’ ashen one; better they leave soon. Before anyone needs to be cut down.

4.

“It isn’t cuddling if that isn’t what we’re doing!” Anders insists, barely holding on to his edge of the blanket as Fenris tugs it hard. Whatever dignity Fenris is hoping to preserve was lost along with his trousers into the pile on the table and Anders is simply cold. Besides, it had been his blanket and he was already out, Isabela was as yet unwilling to part with his clothes just yet. 

Varric smirks. “Sure looks like cuddling.”

Isabela leans onto the table, her fingers toying with her lip teasingly as she grins at Fenris. “I’ll let you have your pants back if you cuddle him.”

“Hardy har, what on Thedas makes you think- what the fuck.” Anders freezes as he feels Fenris’ arms wind around him; one at his waist, the other over his chest to hold his opposite shoulder. Fenris is very, very warm. And naked. And Anders is also naked. It’s such a confusing mix of danger and desire and madness that Anders isn’t entirely sure he isn’t dreaming but the mirrored expressions on the other faces at the table assure him they are as surprised as he is. 

Fenris’ voice murmurs from Anders’ jaw, “My trousers, Isabela.” He prompts. 

Isabela swallows slowly, “Just a little longer.”

Fenris growls and lets go of Anders to snatch up his trousers. Like that the moment is gone but far from forgotten. Their friends tease and giggle but not for long, Anders seemingly the only one still caught in the shock of Fenris willingly touching him as he forgets to even take back the blanket.

It’s still not cuddling, Anders insists weakly to himself.

5.

“Remember the last time we were stuck in the rain like this?” Anders asks, voice soft over the thundering patter of the rain.

Fenris snorts. “I would rather not.” His thumb rubs over Anders’ knuckles and Anders smiles, head tipped down as he peers out the edge of the cave they are huddled in. Hawke and Aveline are not too far away but the blanket hides the contact, no other touch to give them away as they huddle in their blanket and listen to the rain. 

Anders wants to kiss Fenris, he’s fairly sure that he’d get punched for his troubles if he tried it though. Public displays aren’t Fenris’ thing as yet but they’re working on it, Anders thinks as he squeezes Fenris’ hand. 

1+.

Anders does not look up when the cabin door shuts. Fenris isn’t even sure Anders is present, his eyes haunted and distant when Fenris catches sight of them, but it does not deter him. Three days of drowning his anger and betrayal in rum and two days of sobering up and making a decision have been enough Fenris. He has chosen and he intends to stand by it, for he is free.

Free to make mistakes, to make choices, to love whom he chooses; for good or ill. Free nonetheless. 

Anders has not left the cabin they put him in. He has eaten and drank whatever Hawke brought him but he has not moved much that Fenris can tell. He doesn’t move when Fenris places the blanket around him, but he turns to look at Fenris warily when the elf tucks himself into the blanket and against Anders’ side.

“What are you doing?” Maker, his voice is so rough it is unrecognisable. The firm, if resigned, strength that had held Anders tall as the Chantry burned is gone now. He is a man haunted and crushed by his choices; broken and lost. 

It is like looking at a mirror to his past, to the slave that had broken from his chains and stood over slaughtered friends before the concept of freedom had truly formed in his mind. 

Anders is not the only one with blood on his hands. 

Fenris reaches up to cup Anders’ raggedly unshaven jaw, thumbing the prickly bristles of hair and wondering at the life he is making of the freedom he fought so hard to obtain. Would he change anything? Probably, but the mistakes are his own as much as the joys. He treasures each for the novelty that he has them. “Making a choice.” Fenris says softly.

It is chaste, by all accounts Varric would no doubt write something more fitting in the novel they know he is writing without their permission, but it is fitting. Forgiveness in a caress, no sweeping flames of passion to eclipse the importance of it as Fenris holds Anders in his arms and welcomes him home. 

He chooses to love and he chooses to forgive. He chooses this man- this mage- and he will not recant that choice. 

“I love you.” Anders breathes into his neck, the edge of grief and sorrow and gratitude colouring his words.

“I am yours.” Fenris answers without hesitation. 

Later they can discuss the details, the hurt, and the blame. For now there is only the squalling rain that they can hear out of the tiny cabin window and the warm presence of Anders in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: akaiba.tumblr.com


End file.
